MJ Meets MJ
by StormCity
Summary: Perhaps Michelle Jones can never cope with the fact that there is a new girl called Mary Jane Watson in class. Both polar opposites, they immediately set up a dislike for each other. Michelle hates the fact that Mary Jane too calls herself "MJ", and what's worse probably, for Michelle, is that she is Peter's new next-door neighbor.
1. Cinders

_A/N: Spoilers ahead for Spider-Man: Far From Home! _

__This came out really in a very short time, though I'd been wanting to write it for quite long, and I am really glad this is finally out. It is an alternate reality to the film, branching from the mid-credits scene. __

* * *

Peter Parker is a void.

Michelle knows- she always did- that he isn't always going to be around. That is, after all, the price tag superhero-boyfriends come with, but sometimes it just bites. When it's the cinemas, there's an empty seat next to her. Cafes and restaurants end up with a vacancy opposite her. Sometimes he doesn't show up in the class. She knows it's worth it, and so sometimes she spends extra money buying pizzas for the two of them, but he isn't there to gobble them down with her.

What's extra goes into the bin.

Michelle doesn't mind, however. She's learned to tolerate a lot over the years. What bothers her is whenever he is around, Mary Jane Watson sticks along with him like a complementary piece. Michelle hates to wonder, but occasionally it really _has_ crossed her mind if it's actually the other way around. It's not that she has doubts about their relationship.

It is something else that pushes the thought into her mind.

Exactly three weeks ago, on a cold evening, she was headed home from the library. Burdening her down were three fat volumes of historical works she had borrowed, and she hadn't had any backpack with her. Carrying the books in her hands, in the misty streets, she never noticed when she bumped into a woman, sending the latter falling backwards. The book at the top of the pile slid and dropped to the ground.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized, stooping to pick her possession, when the woman caught hold of her hand while bending down to help, and jerked back like she had been shot by billion volts of lightning. "Are you okay Ma'am?" Michelle asked, taken aback. Suddenly the air turned a lot colder around her.

The woman looked up to level her eyes with Michelle's. Not much of her was visible. She was draped in a shawl which was wrapped around her head. Only a little of her face was out. Her grey eyes were misty, much like the cold, and they intensely stared at Michelle. "Darling," she said in a muffled, floating voice, "what is your name?"

Michelle, who had a boyfriend who swung around the city in red and black as Spider-Man, knew that his safety services were not always available everywhere, and she'd long ago learned to avoid inquisitive strangers, despite her mother never caring to teach her.

"Excuse me," she said politely, picking up her book, and staring at the ground she began to leave, gathering pace. A cold wave surged through her as she moved past the lady.

"Is it _Michelle_?" she quietly asked, but loud enough to hear. Michelle froze. It was like someone was watching a movie and had hit pause. Her heart was pounding, and she could see her own breath freeze under the pale street lamp. She turned to find the lady, and the way she was looking at her sent an agonizing chill down her back.

"Who are you?" Michelle asked, already clutching her books tight, ready to flee.

"In an alternate universe," the lady began like reading a fortune. "In many alternate universes, in fact, Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson are meant to be together."

Michelle squinted in disbelief. Her mind raced across as many names in her school as she could remember. None of them was any _Mary Jane Whatever_. Alternate universes were a joke. Earlier this year Peter had fought someone known as _Mysterio_, a former Stark Industries psychopath who had claimed he was from an alternate universe.

But how did she know about Peter? Or for that matter, her name?

Michelle's mouth spoke of its own accord, because sarcasm was something she never could really let go of, even in dire circumstances. "In an alternate reality, you're meant to be Frankesnstein's wife."

"Beware of emerald eyes and fiery hair," the woman called, ignoring her, "for what is yours might be her fair share."

When Michelle reached home twenty minutes later, she rushed to the kitchen to feel the warmth of the gas stove in her hands. Then she took a hot shower and slipped into her night clothes. Once under the blanket, the eeriness of the cold had ebbed away like ducks swimming away in a pond. She loitered around the pages of her books, and when sleep grasped her into its arms, she slipped away from the printed text and into a dream about Peter Parker holding out a flower the colour of fire.

_"How do you like it?"_ he asked.

_"It's beautiful,"_ Michelle replied. Then, hesitantly, _"It's for me?"_ Of course, it had to be for her. She was being really, really stupid.

The smile and comfort faded from Peter's face. _"Oh, no,"_ he said, pulling his hands away from her, cupping the flower. _"It's not. It's, for someone else."_

* * *

The horror of that night faded as the days passed.

It came back a week later, when her math teacher introduced a new girl to the class.

"Hi I'm Mary Jane Watson," the red-headed girl said a little nervously. Michelle's blood turned icy solid in her veins. Outside, it was a perfect day. The winter sun's warmth had felt very pleasant to the skin. Though clouds had been rolling thousands of feet above them, momentarily blocking the rays of the sun, when the new girl stepped in before them, the skies cleared and the light shimmied in through the windows and shone on her. The class wasn't at its full strength that morning, and Michelle noticed that everyone inside had their eyes glued to this Mary Jane _nightmare-come-true_ of hers.

In the light Michelle noticed that she had green, crystal-like eyes, so intense that Michelle could hardly make out what was happening. She was lost in the deafening sounds of her own struggling breath, numb and immobile. This Mary Jane seemed to talk for a minute, and gather smiles around the room, including Peter's. Michelle clenched her fist, then let go of it. Clenched her fist, then let go.

"I really hope to have a great time with you all," the new girl completed.

"Miss Watson can go sit with Peter over there," their teacher said, pointing at the empty place beside Peter. "And for that reason, Mr. Parker, I want you to show her around after school is over, and help her with every bit you can. Including sharing your notes and bringing her up to date with the class activities. Is that right?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah."

Michelle covered her eyes with her hands and rested her forehead on her desk. _Beware of emerald eyes and fiery hair_. The only flicker of hope was that the girl did not have fiery hair. It was red. Disturbingly red.

Peter Parker sandwiched in the middle with Michelle to his left and Mary Jane to his right would be their place for sometime to come, but Michelle just didn't know until how long.

Nine days later, they still sit the same way.

"Where to?" she asks Peter. "Tonight?" she adds, seeing that he isn't able to get it.

"Tonight, tonight," Peter repeats, walking back and forth, not getting it. How could he be so dumb?

Michelle rolls her eyes. "You know, it's the twenty-fourth of December."

"Yeah, yeah, right," Peter says, almost apologetically. "Me and Aunt May, we're invited to Mary Jane's."

Michelle doesn't believe what she hears. But, _of course_. Peter grins uneasily. Then he lights up. "You can come with us," he suggests. "Or, what about tomorrow?"

Michelle shakes her head. "I won't be home," she lies. "Going out with my mom. See you after that, maybe on the thirty-first." She manages a weak smile.

"Oh, uh, sure! Cool."

"Hello," the devil strikes right then. Her red hair brushes her back, and Michelle is led to wonder once again if it really is the colour of fire. "Pretty tough questions you had in store today." She stares directly into Michelle's eyes. "Or was it only today?" She puts a hand on Peter's shoulder. Michelle can't help but notice the polished nails, the unappealing shade of green darker than that of its mistress's eyes. She keeps on looking at how those eyelashes wink at Peter, how those fingers caress his shoulder blades, how close they are getting to the base of his neck. And then she imagines them going up, behind the ear and tugging at his hair. _Face it tiger…_

The last hour today was dedicated to quiz practice. It was not the Decathlon, but by now everyone accepted, unofficially, that anything and everything that came to quiz, Michelle would take over as the head, or the leader, or the chief, or whatever.

She was waiting for all the places to fill up. To her disapproval, Ned had attached himself to Betty today. She couldn't get why, given the two of them had separated sometime ago. Maybe because the year was nearing, or maybe because it was Christmas tomorrow. Nevertheless, Peter had no partner.

So it was inevitable that a Mary Jane Watson would surprisingly walk in, and Mr. Harrington would ask her to sit with Peter.

Peter, who looked startled when she dug her finger into his shoulders, shifted to make space, and looked, for once, towards Michelle, who had her mouth made into a thin line, and her hands planted deep into her pockets, clenched so tight that her nails dug into her skin and her palms hurt.

"Face it tiger," Mary Jane said to Peter upon seeing his face, pulling the sheet of blank paper towards her, "you just hit the jackpot."

Michelle wished she could throw up. _What?_ She exchanged a bewildered look with Betty, and frowned. No, she wouldn't let Mary Jane answer a single question, and what would follow would be a sight to see. _Face it tiger, you just _lost_ the jackpot._

"We're practicing very hard for the _Quinzylvania_," Michelle now says to Mary Jane, crossing her arms. Then she glances at Peter. "Tough ones are inevitable."

The red-headed girl furrows her eyebrows. "Then why do I have a feeling they were directed only to the two of us?"

"Because," Michelle says, casually brushing aside a strand of hair that came before her eyes, "you two seemed like the brighter pair. Or am I wrong, _Jackpot_." She's about to turn, leaving behind a gaping Peter. "But don't worry. The rest of the team has it coming. Enjoy your holiday. I've got mine ahead."

"MJ," Peter calls from behind, but she doesn't reply. Just waves a hand.

* * *

Christmas is dry as usual. Whatever nourishment it used to have is gone, because this time, even Michelle doesn't feel like cooking. Her mom, who has come to know no holiday since her father left, and which was even before Michelle remembers, has kept her door locked, which isn't a surprise. Sometimes Michelle hears the voice of her colleague on the other side of that wooden thing, some man whose voice Michelle hated the first time she heard him.

She has decided she is not hungry, and while her friends are out there somewhere in the cold, she stays indoors like she doesn't exist in their world. She pours herself over her books, the one thing she likes to do, the one thing she knows will never leave her side. Having had the cold feel unbearable, she pulls on her socks and climbs into her bed and slips under the covers. Leaning against the wall, her pillow behind her, she brings her knees up and scans the pages, relaxing and feeling the comfort of the electric heater that has kept her room warm the whole evening.

Michelle is unable to concentrate. She realizes all she has been doing is skimming through the lines. She sighs and closes the book. Inside her table cupboard is a photo album, and she takes it out.

Its the first photo itself that stops her, a shot with her cousins in her uncle's place, around the hearth, whose fire had died out and what remained were the cinders. The warmth was still there, as Michelle recalls, but what draws her attention is the fireplace. Michelle pulls the covers tight around her. It's the cinders, and something hits her realization. _The colour of fire_. The fire had burned and with time, disappeared, and what remained were the cinders, red, disturbingly red, like someone's hair.

Michelle can't take it anymore. She heads to the kitchen for a glass of water, but stops on the way. She stands before the mirror above her basin, and beholds a ghastly sight. On the other side of the glass stands a girl with dishevelled hair who looks rather pale. She can't believe it, but there are streaks of tears on her cheeks.

Michelle splashes her face angrily with cold water. Tears, she never remembered having them before. Tears were never for her.

Yet they were here.

It happens when she comes out of the bathroom. She hears a gentle tap on her window, and turns around immediately. There, perched on the window sill is a Peter Parker in his Spider-Man attire, mask removed. He is looking at her, waiting patiently to slide up the pane. She does so, and steps aside.

Michelle can't figure out what she feels. She thinks she is partly relieved, a little glad, maybe. But then the fact that perhaps Peter is no more hers is ready to cast its shadow on her momentary happiness. Yes, maybe that is what she feels right now. Happy.

Nevertheless, she keeps a straight face. "What brings you here?" she asks. She tries to balance a sad, yet casual and happy tone, but fails miserably.

"What are…what are _you_ doing here?" Peter has this habit of stammering when he doesn't know what to say. Well, it cannot be called a stammer, but his words have this nature of overlapping that he has to speak from the beginning again. "I-I thought you said you were going out somewhere."

"I lied," Michelle says flatly. "I thought you'd be preoccupied."

Peter doesn't understand, and had it been anything else, Michelle would have smiled. "_Preoccupied_?" he asks.

"With Mary Jane?" Michelle shrugs. "What? You haven't been around for some time, so I figured I lay low."

"Oh, no, no, no" Peter says, and he looks almost terrible. Guiltily terrible. He steps towards her, and Michelle takes a step back. "You have it all wrong, MJ."

"Yeah?" Suddenly Michelle wants to let out everything that has haunted her thoughts. She wants to ask him what he did yesterday in the red-headed girl's home, how was his time, are they a thing or something now, although she believes, desperately, that they aren't. But she isn't like that. Michelle Jones doesn't whine. That is why she lets go of it. Perhaps, some other day they'd talk, and she makes a mental note of it. But now here he is, a source of light and warmth in her cold, dark world, and she has to cherish it while it lasts.

She shrugs again. "Well, she's one heck of an _attention_-seeker, isn't she?"

He smiles. Almost laughs. "Yeah."

Michelle nods, and after a pause, walks over to him. For an uneasy second, they stare at each other, and then she wraps her arms around him and closing her eyes, rests her head on his shoulder.

The window is open and it's freezing cold, but Michelle hardly feels it.


	2. Next-Door

The air is unbearably frozen.

Even in the warmth of the suit, the cold bites into Peter's skin as he soars higher into the night sky. Tired and bruised, he has had enough for the day. His arms and legs ache; they are numb, and he can't feel holding the web line he has just shot. It's all guesswork and instinct that keeps him from plummeting downward.

He lands on his terrace and rolls to a stop. Pain shooting up his spine, he manages to sit, and sighs. His body feels like it weighs a ton, and he realizes that it's a matter of time before he can change and walk down the stairs to the floor his apartment sits upon. He has a terrible headache, all the more amplified by the mask. It feels suffocating, being so tight and fit. Hell, he'll have to take it off anyway, so he checks around, and seeing no one, removes it. The cold greets his face, and for a moment, his nostrils feel stuffed up and he is breathless. It burns his eyes, and he can feel them turning red.

There is a shuffle behind him, but he doesn't anticipate it, though. It dawns on him that perhaps it is a little too late to put the mask back on.

Peter jumps to his feet and walks away when he hears a gasp behind him, and he knows all too well who it is. He secretly curses himself for being so careless. First it was his aunt, and now-

"Peter is that you?" Mary Jane's voice is shocked and faltering. It's so intervening in the silence that it feels loud enough for entire Queens to hear her. It makes his heart pound and blood rush to his face.

Peter doesn't move. He doesn't walk. He just stands with his back to her, for he knows if he takes a single stride, she'll know it is him, which, seemingly, she already has. "Peter you're _Spider-Man_?"

* * *

It had been quite a stretch since Peter and his aunt May had had Ned, Peter's best friend, over for lunch, not since the Hulk had resurrected the missing half of the universe who were snapped away due to the _blip_. Peter still remembered the smell of the disastrous burning turkey meat loaf recipe May had tried once. She had suggested Thai food for _plan B_.

"What if it's a disaster this time too?" Ned joked. Both he and Peter were standing before the latter's apartment door, and Ned had produced a Lego version of Batman from his trouser pocket. "_Tell me, do you bleed_?"

"Then we have that Thai food restaurant to back us up," Peter shrugged, ignoring the Lego piece and Ned's imitation of Batman's. "And don't worry. I won't chase you away this time too."

There had been a scuffle behind them all along, and as they finally turned around, the door opened and a familiar red head popped out. At first, she too was startled to see them, but then she overcame her surprise and waved.

"Hi," she said, looking rather happy.

Peter just couldn't believe it.

If he could recall correctly, the last two days since she had arrived, he'd spent most of his time with her. Mary Jane was a nice girl. She was good company, but it was evident that he was spending less and less time with Michelle, and he could see the hurt in her eyes, although she never showed it.

And now here Mary Jane was, again, coming out of a door right opposite his.

"I think you're supposed to say _hi_," Ned whispered into his ear, and it dawned on Peter that he had kept her hanging in the air for a moment.

"Uh hey," he said. "Didn't know you lived here too."

"Well we just moved in today," Mary Jane said. "So it's you, or Ned, that lives here?"

"It's actually him," Ned replied, pointing at Peter. "But I wish it was me."

* * *

"_Next door_?" Michelle exclaimed, although her emphasis sounded more like she was scolding Peter. "Now she lives next door?"

"Well what can I do?" Peter said. He noticed Michelle, noticed that there was something unsettling about how her face had changed colour. Unlike the _girlfriend syndrome_, as Flash liked to call it, which, in other words meant jealousy, she looked scared. Terrified. She looked suddenly very cold, for she pulled her jacket taut around her. She was shivering, but there was also some anger flashing in her eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked her, holding her hand. And it did seem cold. She was holding his a little too tight, as if afraid to let go. "What is it, MJ?"

She shook her head. "Nothing." Then after a pause, "Peter?"

"Yeah."

She gave him a look that almost unsettled him. For a moment her eyes looked deadly scary. "You don't believe in _alternate _universes, do you?"

_Alternate universes?_ The one thing that came to his mind when someone said _alternate universes_ was a fish bowl and a purple cape. "But why?"

"Just asking."

"I did, but you know what happened. Well if you look at it analytically, it is not possible. Quantum Physics doesn't allow it, for it interferes with the Planck Scale. It's all a hoax."

She nodded, yet her eyes seemed far ahead. "Yeah, okay. That's what I thought."

* * *

There is a cigarette in her hand with an unsuccessfully burnt end. In her other hand, and although she tries to hide it at first, Mary Jane is holding a lighter. Peter notices it gradually. He could have, at once, but his heart is broken. Broken because lately he has been a failure at keeping his identity secret. To be frank, he has been a failure at keeping any secret at all. _What is it that you go on around telling everyone who you are? _Happy Hogan's rebuke rings in his ears. _"Hi, I'm Peter Parker. Hi, I'm Peter Parker, call me Spider-man?"_

It's the same thing that he thinks over and over again: he needs to be more careful.

"You do that often?" he asks, pointing at the roll of cigarette. For heaven's sake, he doesn't know what to say, and he has to do anything he can to fill up the silence.

Mary Jane makes a disgusting face. He shakes her head. "I found it in my aunt's coat pocket. Wanted to try one. Never did it before." She looks at the roll, and flicks it away, over the edge of the terrace. "But you know what? Never mind!"

Peter smiles. "What are you doing up here in the cold?"

She shrugs. "I should be asking you that, Spider-Man. You look tired and injured."

Peter sighs, and sits down on a old, forbidden wooden bench. "That is what I do."

She walks over, and leaning down, places a hand on his forehead. Her hands are warm and soft, even in the cold, and Peter wonders if Michelle's will feel the same. The bench he is sitting on has room for three, and Mary Jane sits herself beside him. She takes off her jacket and puts it around him. "You're gonna catch a fever," she says. "You're cold."

Peter is reluctant to accept her offer. "And you're not?"

She looks down at him, and her eyes are fixed to the spider insignia on his chest. "Well you are the one who's been out here, it looks like, for the entire time. I came right now. Just take it." She pats him on the back, and Peter thankfully accepts it.

"One thing," he says after an awkward pause.

"Yeah?"

"Please don't tell anyone. It's really crucial I keep it a secret."

She nods very slowly. "I know. I get it, but it's really cool. I'm _really _freaking out. The only thing that's keeping me quiet is the cold. It's awesome, though."

"Trust me. It isn't. By the way, um, I think it's time we went inside. It's really freezing out here."

* * *

Michelle is incredulous the next day. Peter tells her everything when school is over. For something, she has developed this nervous habit of biting her lower lip, and she does so now, to the point it cracks and bleeds.

"So now she knows too," she says, terribly calm. "Is anything else left?"

"But Michelle," Peter tries to explain, jumping before her, too worried she might leave again. "I'm, uh, it was not intentional. How was I to know she was there?"

Michelle shrugs. "I'm not blaming you." She gives him a sly smile. "It wasn't your fault I figured out who you were."

Peter breaths a sigh of relief. He knows there is something she is not telling, but forcing Michelle to confess something is as good as trying to move a mountain with bare hands. Just as she says, she isn't good with people. Peter isn't, either, for that matter, but apparently he has more people he is comfortable around.

He puts an arm around Michelle, and tugs her forward. Had it been anyone else doing that, they would have lost their arm, but Peter knows he can cross the line sometimes. All he wants is to see a smile on her face. "Come on, honey," he says in a weird, gentlemanly voice, "let's go grab some lunch today. I've brought my wallet, and I'll let May know that I won't be coming home right now. I'm going out with my girl."

Michelle pretends to consider, then smiles very slightly.

"Yo Mary Jane Watson," someone calls from behind, and turning around, they find that it's Flash. Peter doesn't know what happened to him after Homecoming Night years ago after Spider-Man crashed his car, for Flash only rides a bicycle now. Sometimes he comes on foot.

"Sorry," Flash says, "That's a pretty long name. Not used to it. Like, I am Eugene, but I like it when people call me _Flash_. So I was asking." He slows down a bit, and turns to look at Peter looking at him.

"What's up _Penis Parker_?" he says and chuckles. "Gotten over the girlfriend syndrome?"

"Hey Insect," Mary Jane says in her flirtatious tone, walking over to Flash. "Fire away whatever you want to ask. And you're right. Name _is _a little too long Sometimes I feel that too. All this _Mary Jane-Mary Jane-Mary Jane_… So call me what everybody calls me. _MJ_."

Michelle, who is sipping water from her bottle spits it all out. Her eyes go wide and face turns red. "_What_?"

* * *

_A/N: I'd like to thank those who have put this story into their favorites and alert list. I thank MarvelousManiac for his review. I'm grateful for all the support. It means a lot. I hope you keep on reading._


	3. Fair Share

The door creaks open and a girl slips in. She is dressed in a black vest and peach-coloured shorts. Her wavy hair, the colour of hot glowing cinders, bounces steadily, swaying from side to side as she tiptoes to the bed where Peter Parker is scrolling through his phone, sitting on his bed with his back leaning against the head-rest and his legs tucked under the thick white covers. He has his eyes fixed on her, and she smiles from the shadows. The entire room is dark; all the lights are switched off, except the table lamp.

Mary Jane climbs onto the bed and sits on his lap. Before Peter gets a chance to act, she leans in and gently touches his lips with hers. For a moment he is shocked- his eyes are wide and he is struggling to collect himself together. A few seconds stretch by as they stare at each other, and his pounding heart calms down. He places his hands around her and pulls. He is careful to be gentle, aware that he might hurt her with his superhuman strength, but the way they kiss right then makes him look pretty normal. It's like a wrestle, a showcase of power between the two. Mary Jane has him by the neck and they tussle, tangled in each other's arms. Peter has to fight to keep up, and his hand misses the lamp switch.

They pull away, panting, and Mary Jane gets under the covers. Peter stirs as she crawls over him, their nose meet, and they kiss again. His face is hidden by her flaming red hair. She playfully runs her fingers through his arm and grabs hold of his wrist, and caresses it. Peter's fingers reach for the lamp and tugs at the string. The lamp goes off.

The only source of light is gone, leaving them engulfed together in the darkness.

It's a painful sight to behold. It's better to see them rather than guessing what they are possibly doing. The darkness is unfair, because Michelle can hear them, but she can't move. Her jaws are tight and they pain. She has had enough and she wants to cover her ears, but she can't. She writhes and struggles but she is just still. She is in shock. Like a living statue she stands, completely quiet, as if every joint in her body has been plastered. She wants to let out a scream, and she tries to push it through her throat.

It is then that she wakes up, sighing. Her eyes snap open and she stares at the ceiling. Pale light flows in from her window. She didn't leave the curtains closed, in case Peter decided to drop by.

He didn't.

* * *

"I still can't believe you are Spider-Man," Mary Jane whispers into Peter's ears after school, but loud enough so that Michelle can hear. Peter grins uneasily glancing at the latter. Mary Jane lingers around for a while, and then hurries off behind them.

Michelle feels like asking him, _you know people hear better when you whisper, don't you?_ but she doesn't. Instead, she comments, "Your lips are swollen." Lately, she's decided to keep herself completely occupied during school hours. She'll do anything to keep her mind off morbid thoughts, though she can't help but notice that Peter's lips look swollen than usual. Or is it just her imagination?

Peter is busy in his phone when his hand shoots up and touches his lips. "Oh this?" he says. "Yeah, it's uh, you know, it's winter and my lips are parched. So I keep licking them, and, sometimes, biting them." He shrugs. "Maybe that's why."

Michelle shrugs. "Oh." So much for not kissing a red-head. She looks away. An image of last night's dream flashes before her eyes. The entire day, she's had a rough time trying not to think about it. She hates the memory of seeing Peter's face hidden under the _unnaturally_ natural red hair, even though it's not real. It almost angers her. Michelle was surprised at herself when she wanted to hurl a table at the red-head when she came into the hall and took her seat next to Peter. Mary Jane looked so happy that it led Michelle to wonder if such a thing had really passed over the two of them. She kept on reminding herself she was being paranoid, but gaining control over her subconscious was something she had not yet mastered.

"Guys the _Quinzylvania _is _pretty _near and my nerves are starting to tingle already," Mr. Harrington announced. He pushed his glasses up from the tip of his nose where it constantly came sliding down to. "So I want you to push the limits even farther, MJ."

"Yes Sir," both Michelle and Mary Jane answered in unison. Stunned, Michelle glared at the red-headed girl, and the red-headed girl in turn stared back, her face not giving away anything.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She looked down at her notebook, maybe a little embarrassed, Michelle thought.

She rolled her eyes. Out of all the girls in the world, it had to be this one. Not only was the new girl stealing Peter's time with her, but also what she liked to call herself. From an early age, Michelle was reluctant to share her belongings with others. Not because she was selfish, but because she didn't trust them enough to get them back in one piece. And now every time someone said _MJ_, she'd have to look up even though it was only the other girl they were calling.

Like Mr. Harrington now, every praise to MJ's name would not be Michell's.

"Oh, yes, Mary Jane," he said. From the last few sessions, he was pretty impressed with her. The whole class knew that. But Michelle knew differently. It was not always a very good sign with Mr. Harrington. Though a nice man, most of the time he didn't seem to know what he was doing. Years back when Michelle helped the team finally win Decathlon, she was voted the team leader after Liz had left. Mr. Harrington used to be so confident with Peter that he'd even put Flash in the first alternate. "I'd like you to stand as deputy…_head_ for the team and stand in for Michelle when she's not feeling like it."

Michelle sighed. Her subconscious, something new to her, screamed at her- _I __told you! _The words itself were a black hole. They sucked out every rational thought and awareness from her. For a second she stood in space, completely levitating. _For what is your might be her fair share_.

"And Peter," Mr Harrington wasn't finished. "You're going to join us, right, or do you plan on going for some other business?"

Peter put his pencil down and cleared his throat. "I, um, totally plan to go _with_ you this time, for sure."

"You have to join Black Widow over here," Flash said out loud. Michelle smiled. It could only be him, stupid enough to say such a thing. Black Widow too had red hair, but oh, it was such a foolish comparison.

"No man, Black Widow's dead," Jason, an unlikely member in the team, said flatly. The rest of the room looked on, amazed at finding him here. Usually he was the one around in the school's news segments, swearing, to his co-host Betty Brant's disapproval.

"Yeah, I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't make fun of it, dude!."

Flash rolled his eyes. "Look man, I said I'm sorry alright?"

* * *

_What is yours might be her fair share._

Michelle turns to look behind her. There in the distance she sees her classmates around Mary Jane. They are laughing and smiling and talking, and for the first time a wave of regret shoots through Michelle, so light that she doesn't feel it at first. Usually she doesn't allow self-sympathy, but after all this time of ignorance, she can finally feel it building up. Slowly the walls she has created to surround herself with, to hide within, starts to feel a little claustrophobic. Too tight and rigid. It's her own fault, anyway. She's grown up in such a way that it was necessary to do that, otherwise she would never have been able to escape the hole she wakes up to everyday. Suddenly she yearns for friendship, for some kind of a friend circle. The problem is she knows she can't do it. Her lips will seal themselves on their own if she wants to try. Hell, the way she is, nobody would be friends with her, and she'd have to change herself if she ever really wanted one, which she hates to think about. So it's a miracle that some Peter Parker is always there for her, her constant, who too perhaps is beginning to tire of the intricacy of her nature.

A burst of hot air greets her face. It's too late by the time she sees what has actually happened. For the days to come, Michelle will never forget that loud, ear-piercing sound that threatens to burst her eardrums. It looks too large than usual. She remembers unknowingly hearing the screech of the tires as the truck skidded, its horns blaring. She stares at the grills and the radiator within, and she can almost feel the vibration of the engine, with its large pistons and all the machinery that keep the thing moving.

In a fraction of a second Peter throws himself at her and together the two of them are in the air, shooting across the width of the street. Michelle's breath is knocked out of her, and a thudding pain hits home as she lands on the sidewalk with her back. Her hand grazes the gravel as she comes to a halt with Peter beside her.

"_Shit_," he lets out, breathing very heavily.

Michele is in a frenzy. For sometime, she doesn't feel anything, doesn't realize the extent to which things could have turned to. Not until she sees the truck driver swearing at her and speeding away, not until she sees her classmates rush across the street to be by her side. Mary Jane is still there where she was seconds ago, her hands on her mouth and her eyes wide. Their eyes meet briefly before Michelle looks down to examine the back of her right hand. The skin is abraded. The colour slowly turns red before the first drop of blood oozes out of the surface.

She doesn't hear the others call out her name for the grip of panic still hasn't completely left her.

"Oh my God, MJ!" Peter exclaims, hugging her, bringing her back. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"I…" Michelle struggles to find her voice. "I, I was lost in…in thought. Never noticed it coming."

"Well," Peter says, seeing her hand. "Yeah." He takes it and stares at it in horror.

"It's nothing," she says. "Really. Just a bruise."

There is something unsettling about the way Peter looks at her. His face is horror stricken, and his eyebrows furrowed. She can see he has stopped breathing, and he stands. She doesn't know what's happening, but he looks scared. He shivers a little as he walks backward.

"Peter?" she calls. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer. Nor does he look at her eyes. His eyes are glued to her injured hand, and he cups his mouth and gasps. His strides gain length and his pace quickens. He turns around and runs away faster than any normal human can so that following him is pointless.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks everyone for the favorite and follows. Thank you Gmac for your review. Hope you all keep reading!_


	4. Consequences

_This cannot be happening_, Peter thinks as he hurries away from Michelle, leaving her by the curb with an injured hand. His insides scream as he dashes away from her. It's like a ribbon tied to the both of them, and every stride away is an effort, for the elasticity in the ribbon tends to pull him back. For a moment, at this speed, he almost loses balance and trips. But he has to go. He has to know. If Peter is right, something is really amiss with Michelle. He can see it because he has been dealing with things of his own lately.

He avoids crashing into people, somehow, as he speeds through the pavement, faster than cars and merely a blur to the casual eye. When he is sure he has put a considerable distance between him and his school, he cuts to the right and into an alleyway. He emerges out of it, clad in his red and black tights and fits, taking off into the air from the side of the building, swinging, much faster now than the vehicles below. He hears a flutter of wings, previously unnoticed, as he almost crashes into a window, scaring away the pigeons on the ledge.

It takes him around ten minutes to reach where he wants to. It's at the back of a park, under the shadows of the huge trees, overlooking a huge pool. The park hadn't been there five years ago, but since the _blip_, a lot of things have changed. A lot many are gone, and a lot many are new to sight. Peter's developed a fond for exploring the world around him, grateful for the life he and a billion others have gotten back, something he had taken for granted earlier.

The last time Peter came here was a few weeks ago. He had walked Michelle to the library and then came along all on his own. It was already getting dark, and the cold was setting in. Never being here earlier, Peter wanted to get a taste of the spot, because it looked pleasant enough. A few children were still there, adults too. He walked all over to the end and crossed the canopy of the trees. There was an iron bench on the elevated space before the land steeped down to the edges of the pond, a containment for the cool water that emanated its silence and calm across the entire place. It was eerie, but Peter felt it was nice. So he sat down on the bench, the very bench Spider-Man is standing beside right now, and, because of the cold, rubbed his palms together and pulled up the zipper of his jacket all the way up to the throat.

It was then that he noticed the man approaching.

There was a shed to his right. Somebody had gathered a few logs and set up a small fire. The old man staggered out of the shed, his eyes on Peter the whole time. He had a thick grey beard and he was wearing a woolen cap. He stopped right before the fire, and nodded at Peter.

"Are you cold, son?" he asked, warming his hands from the fire. "Come over and get yourself comfy, would you?"

Peter stood up. "Um, yeah, okay. Thanks!" He slowly stood up and approached the man, noticing that the he still had his eyes on him the entire time. Peter secretly felt for his wallet in the inner pocket of his jacket. Yes, it did feel bulky over there, and he made sure not to touch his jacket any time soon. "That's very generous of you."

The man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "You see, I am a postman," he said, motioning to a disfigured mail box Peter had never noticed earlier. "I give letters to people. I even read them out if they want to."

Uneasy, Peter put up a smile. "I see. That's very nice." Although it wasn't. What kind of a postman read out letters to people?

The old man took out a bunch of envelopes stacked together bound by a string. "There are quite a few here, I'll admit," he said, undoing the string and shuffling through the bundle. "I can even read yours if you like."

Now Peter's hair stood on its end. He was beginning to feel that shock-like sensation that was so familiar to him. His spider-tingle was trying to pull him away. "I'm-I'm sorry," he said. He smiled and let out an uneasy breath. "But I don't think I'd be getting any letters."

"No, no, you do." The old man insisted, still shuffling through the envelopes. Every one that he found dissatisfying he threw into the fire. At last he came to a stop when only half of the original bundle remained. He laughed heartily at Peter. "Here it is. Peter Parker."

Peter was not getting it. "How…how do you know my name?"

The man completely ignored him. He tore the envelope and snatched out a letter. "Let me see, my boy. Let me see. It says," he cast a cold glance at Peter, "it says, _who so ever it is your better half you shall leave, or it will be her pain that you can't heave. With someone new you shall share, everything you got and everything she'd care_." The man crumpled the paper and laughed out loud, his voice booming.

Peter felt an icy cold run down his back of his chest. _What the-? _He stepped over and took the crumpled paper from him and straightened it. The man kept on laughing, staring at him, the fire only giving away one side of his face, but no one in the park was looking. Peter squinted in disbelief.

The paper was blank.

Now, Spider-Man stands entirely in disbelief again. The shed isn't there. Nor is the mail box.

"Excuse me Sir," he calls out to a man who's doing something with the flowers. Peter walks over to him, hoping, praying, that he is the caretaker. "Excuse me dear Sir," he says again and the man turns.

"Yo Spidey," he greets. "What brings _you _here?"

Hearing his alter ego's name, it suddenly hits Peter how stupid he is. Suppose he was to meet the old man, how could he talk dressed up all as Spider-Man? The old man already knew his name, and Peter couldn't give away his _not-so-secret _secret identity too. "Yeah, it's something I'd like to know," he says nevertheless. "Do you work here?"

The man nods. Peter notices he is young, like in his early forties. "Yeah," he says.

A warmth spreads through Peter as he breaths a sigh of relief. "Okay. Sir, um, uh, there was a shed… the last time I came here. And an old man who perhaps stayed or lived in there. A poor old man? With a beard? He said he was a postman. And- and there was a mail box too. Have you- have you seen him lately?"

The man frowns. "A shed?" he says. "There ain't no shed."

"But it was there. I saw it. There was a fire and he was warming his hands, and he was reading out a letter to me."

"How long ago was this?"

Peter tries to remember. "Around three weeks ago, I guess. He was there. I talked to him."

The man shakes his head. "Look. I been here since this park opened, which is around two years ago. If there was a shed or a mail box, I'd know. I come to work everyday, despite the heat, the cold, the rain, the snow. And yet, I assure you, about the shed and stuff you talking about, there never _was_ any."

* * *

"It should have been a holiday today," Flash Thompson whines. "Who on Earth keeps a working day on the thirtieth of December?"

Peter hears a sigh from Ned. It's the last day before school closes for winter break, although Flash is right, it _is _late this time. It's shining outside, and despite the cold, there is a soothing warmth. The two boys stride out taking hurried steps. There isn't any game going on, and half of the class is sprawled across the playground under the sun, because it's a free period.

"Ned, there's something I'm not telling you," Peter says, thinking about the encounter with the old man in the park. Last night, Peter didn't sleep well, and for the first time in a while, he didn't have any bad dream. "And I think now's the proper time."

"Me too," Ned says almost instantly.

Peter stares at him. "You-you too?" They are in the middle of the field now, and from here, Peter has a good view of the school and the line of trees on the other side of the new boundary fence. He decides not to look at it.

"Yes."

"You too what?"

Ned rolls his eyes. "I too have something to tell you. But you go first."

Peter shakes his head. "No you first." He's got the entire hour. Whatever Ned's got must be about some Lego project, some new game, or how he is becoming lesser and lesser of Spider-Man's _guy in the chair_ nowadays. Or worse, he can talk about how wrong Peter had been running away from Michelle like that, leaving her sitting on the curb, or maybe what happened after that. Peter breaths in a massive amount of air till his lungs hurt. He doesn't know why he did it, though. "Go on."

They are sitting on the grass, and Ned plucks out a tuft of grass. "It's about Betty."

Peter frowns. "What _about _her?"

Ned shrugs, still looking at the handful of grass he's holding. "You know we broke up? Oh, yeah, I told you that. But it's weird. Really weird. We're supposed to be friends, but, this Jason. You know Jason right?"

"Yeah of course, Jason Ionello, if that's who you're talking about."

"Yeah, I heard he's had this crush on her for a long time now, Betty, and I think he's- no. I don't think. He is _really _trying on her, you know? Like, he's going everywhere she goes. I mean, who on Earth knew he did this quiz thing? He was there yesterday, and he was there before me. So he sat with her. And today…today he's asking her to do another of those news segments about the school closing for vacation, and it's awkward. I mean, it's strange, isn't it? We never did those news briefings when school's about to close for some holiday. Or holidays. And the thing is that Betty agreed.

"So tell me. Is it normal that I don't feel right about this?"

Peter really doesn't know what to say. "Yeah it's weird, that he's also after her. But as a friend, Ned, because that's how you two have made yourselves with each other. As a friend, you can still talk to her. I think she'll listen to you."

Ned sighs, and although he already knows it, it dawns on Peter that perhaps that's how Michelle has been feeling about seeing him with Mary Jane lately. He suddenly feels very wicked, and he knows he has played it very unfair with her.

Not a word was exchanged between the two of them today.

So he gets up. "Ned, I'll be back. Soon."

"Wh-where are you going?" Ned asks, totally taken aback. Maybe he thinks he's about to go and talk to Betty. Maybe.

"To the library," Peter answers, "where Michelle is."

"But you too had something to say, right?"

Right. Peter forgot about it. But right now he doesn't care. Priority one is to confront Michelle. "We'll talk later," he says, and dashes in the direction of the school library. Instead from going in from where they came out, Peter takes a round about the compound and enters through the side, crossing the small herbal garden.

The corridor doesn't get a lot of sunlight at this hour, but it's the shortest way to the library upstairs. Peter heads for the stairs, taking a right.

Right there, a couple of nine yards ahead of him, the door to a room opens and a familiar red head steps out.

Peter stands there, still as a statue, but Mary Jane doesn't see him. She heads the opposite direction, her head bowed, and then disappears into some corridor. Peter looks up to see the placard above the door.

Lately, there have been some things he is unable to understand, like one of them is that the placard above the door from which Mary Jane just emerged reads, _School Counsellor_.

* * *

Michelle is sitting at the end of the library, totally isolated. A bundle of books mount her table, and she is busy jotting down in her notebook. For a moment he stays where he is, hidden behind the shelves.

Looking at her kills him. Her right hand is wrapped in bandage, but she is writing with it all the same. There is the broken Black Dahlia she's keeping beside her on the table, and sometimes, she takes it in her other hand and squeezes it. It's actually unusual, because Michelle is not the kind of girl who shows values to things, though deep down she does care. It's only with Peter when she is not so cold and straightforward. She's not actually rude, but the way she acts with others doesn't give them a very nice time with her. And there he was, the only one she talks to, running away from her, leaving her behind on the curb, scared, and injured.

Scared, but of what? Mary Jane? Or something else?

He pushes himself out of his hiding, and he very slowly approaches her. She soon notices him. She stops writing and looks up. Instantly, Peter notices, she hides the Black Dahlia into her shirt pocket and puts up a bored face, like she is tired and sighing.

"Hi," he says, although it's somehow only louder than a whisper. He slowly, noiselessly, pulls out a chair and sits down beside her. There are huge piles of books facing him, so much that he can possibly make out with her here and no one would notice. No one would, anyway, because she is in the upper floor of the library, and all alone. Except, maybe the cameras.

"Hi," she replies, looking somewhere between him and her notebook. She is still holding her pen, and Peter wonders if she'll just ignore him and resume her writing.

She doesn't. She wants to say something, but is unable to.

Before she can take it away, Peter takes her injured hand and examines it.

"It was…just a scrap." Her tone is clipped and dry. It's a no-brainer she is upset with him.

"I'm so sorry," Peter says, squeezing her hand, and the only two times he remembers being so guilty was when his uncle died and with Mr. Stark moments before he passed away. "How're you doing?"

"Why did you run away?" she asks, reminding Peter why. He thinks about the old postman who was never really there. What would he say to her? _To see a ghost_? Peter is not sure he has any clue of what's happening around him. And it's all the more stupid, for he could have stayed back with her and seen her to the doctor.

"I had…_things_ to tend to," he says, and consoles himself. Even if it's not entirely true, it's not false either.

She nods, and doesn't question him further. Peter wants to pull her to his arms, but it's the library, and its pretty weird. There's a lot he wants to tell her, but something tells him it's not the appropriate time.

He decides to spend the rest of the day with her instead.

* * *

Peter's phone rings in the middle of the night, and even though it's late, he is thankful for waking up because he was having a bad dream about a strange man with a cloak on a horse chasing him through the shadows, which maybe because a few days ago he was reading this comic of Ned's which was about ghostly knights, on translucent, blue horses who breathed smoke through their nostrils. The man was saying something to him, but Peter can't recall what.

It is Michelle. Seeing her name, he wakes up fully to his senses and answers her call. He is suddenly worried. He doesn't even hear her voice, but he is already worried. It is the middle of the night, and the clock just struck two.

"Michelle?" he says, already imagining someone else holding the phone to his ear, having taken her away.

And it sends a chill to his bones because it _is _her, but it sounds so different. "Peter," she says, so fast that had it been someone else's name, it would have been hard to figure out. "Peter are you there?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm here. What happened?"

Her voice wavers. "It's my mother, Peter. She's had an accident." The line goes dead, and so does the air around him.

Sitting in the deadly silence, Peter suddenly remembers what the man on the horses in his dream was saying.

_Your better half you shall leave, or it will be her pain that you can't heave._

Peter should be scared, and he is, but it pulls him down. It buries every other emotion, except one. He realizes the bitter truth, something that has always played before him, and he never noticed. It was with Quentin Beck, who was ready to kill all his friends. It was on the road, that truck, which could have killed Michelle. It has all been a close call, until now. And her mother's accident is not a coincidence.

Thinking about it arrests his breathing, and for a moment, his entire world has come to a halt. He knows that whatever he saw, ghost or not, whatever he heard, had a meaning. He lets lose. His back comes hitting the wall, and he stays like that, his knees pulled up and his hands covering his eyes.

He is lost and helpless.

He is just a threat to Michelle, and maybe it is only better if he stays away.

* * *

_Thank you, everyone, for reading and for following and favoriting this story!_


	5. Clock

"You know what's the _best _thing _and _the _worst_ thing about going home after school?" Mary Jane asked after her fourth day at Midtown. School was over early today and the thee of them- her, Peter and Michelle were on their way to catch their trains home. It was a cold and windy day. The day before, the clouds had rolled in and they were refusing to move. It had stormed yesterday, and today there was a slight chance of snow. Peter's hand was cold and shaking. Michelle could tell because she was holding it, and he was wearing just a thin-layered sweater, while she and the red-head were hidden under thick parkas.

"What could be bad about going home?" Peter asked, breathing out steam into the cold air.

_Everything, _Michelle thought.

Mary Jane playfully punched him in the arm. "Well let's say the best one first? It's sleep. Hah. Plain and warm sleep, especially in the cold. With the heater on, and two layers of blankets over you? Wow. That's the one thing I'm always looking forward to. Something I always dream about all the time." She chuckled, leaving Peter gaping at her. Michelle was amazed beyond words, and she made sure to look the other way while the other girl finished talking.

"And the worst thing?" Peter asked.

"It happens between you entering your doorstep and reaching your bed. It's the longest journey. It's always a long journey to bed. After you reach home, you have to undress, then shower. Then have your lunch, only after which you can go take your nap. Whoah! Not that I hate showering. If I don't bath I'll die. Which reminds me." She rubbed Peter's arms. "Boy you're hot in there aren't you tiger? I'd freeze dressed like you."

"_No_, it's um, actually, uh, I lost my bag yesterday in the alley," he lied. He could, because till then the red-haired MJ didn't know about his secret identity. "It must have been stolen. My coat was in it, and now I have to get myself a new one."

"What'd you go into the alley for?" she asked, looking at him through hooded eyes.

Peter shrugged. Michelle could tell by his hand that he was running out of excuses. "Shortcut."

"How peculiar," Mary Jane commented.

Michelle, someone who avoided talking too much, someone who was trying her best not to piss people off with her dry humor and unnecessary remarks, suddenly knew for sure that the red-head and she weren't going to be very good friends. Despite everything she had tried, but it seemed it wasn't possible.

"But then, isn't everything peculiar?" she asked. She thought about the post-snap world they were living in, all the Avengers disassembled, people missing and things having changed drastically. It was peculiar. She also meant the red-head. A weed among the roses, who, in the rest of the way chatted and chatted and Michelle felt a slight twinge of a headache. It was all _tiger, tiger, tiger, tiger, tiger_. And it was only Peter.

No indeed, they weren't going to be friends any time soon.

"So here we are," Peter said to Michelle when they reached the subway, letting go of her hand, and she wondered, whose hand next would he hold? The red-head looked all keen on it. _Her fair share…_

As Michelle parted way, the light faded and darkness crouched upon her. She took one last glance at the two of them, Peter and Mary Jane, still under the sun's beam. Peter had his hands tied behind him, and Mary Jane, the same height as he, was saying something, squeezing the strap of her bag. Michelle waited for him to look at her, just one last glance before they went their ways, but it was too late. Their train had arrived, and they got in.

But deep down Michelle knew he would have looked back.

* * *

It's one of those grandfather clocks against a lonely yellowing wall. Its pendulum is out of order, it seems, because it strikes neither back nor forth. The glass on the dial is broken, but the hands keep ticking. There is a mirror opposite it, and it's weird, because whenever Michelle turns to look at her tired reflection, she doesn't have to read backward to see the time behind her.

She's waiting, but she can't recall for what. There is a door at the corner to the left of the mirror and she keeps looking at it. Waiting for it to open, yes, but she doesn't remember who she is expecting. All the while, she can see through the vents that outside, the day has faded and the night has risen, and she stands completely still. Deadly silence is her only companion.

Her eyes land back on the mirror.

It's totally dark and very difficult to see, but she can notice grey hair on her head. A second later, instead of where she stands, there is an old lady in her cloths, imitating her every movement. She can still hear the clock ticking all the while and she waits, all panicky now, but for who she can't remember. _I may be cold,_ _rude, indifferent. But why is this happening to me?_

The door knob rattles, and her surrounding transforms back into the room her mother lies unconscious, connected to a dozen tubes and monitors.

"Yes?" she calls out, and suddenly realizes that it was stupid of her to say so, because this is the Intensive Care Unit and the doctors and staff can come and go any time they wish.

The door opens wide. Cold air rushes in, and the doctor is mindful to close it behind him at once. He is a middle-aged man, in his mid-forties maybe as Michelle observes. He's wearing dark, framed spectacles and his fair hair is cut short and neatly combed. He smiles at her. Michele knows the meaning behind that smile all too well. It's for her reassurance that her mother's condition is worse than it seems, and that it's not sure how long it's going to take for recovery, or if she'll recover at all.

"How are you holding up?" he asks, walking over to her mother's bed and examining the monitors.

"I'm fine." Michelle's voice is monotonous. She is in no way alright. She's been in a hospital the last eight hours and she hates hospitals. She looks at where her mother is lying, lost in endless dreams, with all the monitors showing her life in screens, beeping and humming. The room is cold, both literally and metaphorically. Michelle never liked the way hospitals smelled- something between antiseptic and some strong cleaning agent which only reminds her of the dark operating theaters where the doctor cuts open his patients on a table, and she wonders what stops them to even boil down the tiled floors if they are so concerned about hygiene.

The room is dimly lit by the fluorescent tube above her mother's head and another right on the wall opposite the closed window. There is a slab with a basin and a bowl rests beside it. Below, there is a trash bin stuffed with a black poly-bag which is empty. The curtains are drawn. Michelle doesn't like their colour. It's a dark shade of blue, very calming. So calming, in fact, that she literally wants to run out of here.

She knows she can't, because the only parent she's ever known is sleeping endlessly in here, her head having torn open by shards of glass, metal and the gravel, which is now uncountably stitched, wrapped in medical stuff Michelle suddenly forgets what it's called. It's just stuff. Cold, merciless, medical stuff. Wrappings.

"How's _he_?" she asks the doctor.

The doctor's smile fades and his face grows dark. "You mean the man who was with her in the car?" Michelle nodded. "I'm afraid I have bad news, Miss Jones. Mr. Adams couldn't make it."

* * *

By the time Michelle got home, the first flakes of snow had landed on the ground. She was not feeling very well in the mind. The worst thing about going home was home itself. She hated the indifference and loneliness that lurked in there. The door was left open, and Michelle doubted it was for her. Usually she carried her key to school.

The Jones', which comprised only of the mother and the daughter, lived a pretty plain life, or at least, that's what seemed to Michelle. There were little photographs they'd clicked, especially with her. The rest were all with cousins Michelle had long ago lost contact with.

"We've never heard of him," Michelle heard her mother's voice from the other side of her door, which was almost always locked the entire time she was in there. Michelle hardly ever saw her. She'd leave for school before her mother left home and come back before too. Her mother was never there to pick her up from school trips- not after a disaster they had survived in Washington, not after the Europe tour. Never. Michelle was a girl of her own upbringing.

She tiptoed forward and put her ear on the door. "How long ago was it that he'd left?" It was a man's voice, which intrigued her even more. She kept on listening.

"About six months after the girl was born," her mother replied. Her voice was a little too upbeat than it should have for what she was saying. "One night he left for his shift and he never came back. At first I thought it was his work, but then I waited for weeks and weeks, and when he didn't come anymore, well you know what, Adams. I stopped waiting. What could be worse?"

"I know. I know." the man said. "When will your girl be home?"

"Oh No. Don't worry about her, Will. She doesn't care what I do, nor do I, what she does. She's kind of a free bird. No leash."

* * *

It's evening and the clock strikes seven. Michelle is tired of waiting. Waiting that he'd come. There is no sign of Peter Parker.

Throughout the day she was surprised she had so many guests. First it was, unbelievably Flash in the morning who had shown up, and yet surprisingly again, he tried to cheer her up. Then Betty and Jason came along (weird, because Michelle never remembered having a chat with Jason ever), and five minutes later, it was Ned on the door. Mr. Harrington came with Mr. Dell, both putting up very sympathetic faces. Flash attempted a joke, and Michelle laughed, not because it was funny, but because it was weird that no one laughed at such a weird joke ("I'm sorry, it's just that it's weird no one laughed. Yeah, it was a poor one, Flash, but weird all the same. Sorry!").

She is tired. She hasn't slept the entire day. Peter is not here, but what feels good is that she has people there for her. She drowses on the sofa, and just then the door opens and Peter walks in.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he says, and he looks terrible. Michelle wants to tell him that it's alright. That he has come after all. She's about to, when she wakes up to the noise of the doorknob rattling, followed by a knock.

Michelle pushes herself up, hoping it's Peter, and as she approaches the door, she remembers her dream from earlier today. That there will be no one outside, and when she closes the door, and looks at herself in a mirror, she'll see an old lady instead of herself.

But it's Peter's aunt May, and a warm relief floods through her. May pulls her into a hug, and she's holding her too tight. "How're you doing?" she asks.

"Okay," Michelle says, pulling back. It's pretty awkward. The flicker of hope still hasn't died down. "There's someone outside?"

May nods her head. "Yeah," she says smiling, but the smile only looks sympathetic.

Michelle carefully walks back towards the door, quietly, but why she doesn't know. Why isn't Peter coming in? Is he sorry for being so late, for not calling her even once? It doesn't matter. She'll tell him it's alright. This time she really will, because this time she's not dreaming.

Whoever it is outside walks in, and stops at the door. The whole world seems to have gone colourless at the instant. Suddenly Michelle wonders, is she still dreaming?

For standing on the doorway isn't Peter Parker.

It's Mary Jane Watson.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you Gmac for your review. I was thinking of bringing in Harry, but I'm not so sure now. I'll have to decide. This story isn't as tightly plotted as "The Spider-Verse", my other ongoing story, so there is a slight possibility I might modify it. Let's see. As for the villain, well if there really I any (I'm not saying if there is or isn't), you'll have to wait and find out. Also, thank you to all my readers, and to everyone who have supported this story by favoriting and following it!_


	6. Being There

It's some kind of fear that engulfs Mary Jane when she slowly steps into the room. She hates hospitals anyway, and all that creepy atmosphere, calm yet not peaceful, puts her on the edge of her seat. She almost feels dizzy as she pushes herself to walk forward. _Mary, mom's calling us. She wants to see you._

Before her lies a woman hidden in bandages and wires. Suddenly MJ is lost in a dark room, and she can't feel the floor underneath her. _Come, Mary, come on dear. Your mother wants to see you. It's alright._

Deep down she always knew it wasn't.

* * *

"Miss Watson," the school counsellor Mrs. Forester began, "I've heard you've been doing pretty well. Your teachers, especially Mr. Harrington, is quite happy with you. Although, Mr. Dell says you're not trying very hard in your chemistry classes, he thinks you can do far better."

Usually trips to the counsellor wasn't something Mary Jane Watson considered amusing. They'd ask the same question everyday, or rather, every visit. And every time MJ came, she had to pour a bit more of her mind out than she did the last time. It was no picnic.

"I find it pretty dry," she admitted. Chemistry was boring. She knew the risk when she had opted science, she'd heard some elders whine about it, although she hadn't had the slightest idea how true to the word they would be. All the reaction, methane with this gave you that, this with that gave you some weird ring, benzene, whatever, gave her headaches and mouth-aches. She hated the fact that she had to memorize stuff in science classes.

Mrs. Forrester smiled. "But it's there all the same. You have to try, don't you?"

"I guess so," MJ hated saying it.

* * *

The room pretty much tells her everything about Peter's girlfriend, and she can't but feel annoyed at herself for thinking the way she did about her. She should have known. She's also a little pissed at Peter. It should be him with May here. Not her.

"Thanks for coming," Michelle says tonelessly, but Mary Jane knows she means it.

She avoids looking at the girl. "Don't mention it."

* * *

The counsellor leaned on her elbows across her desk. She seemed very focused, and she was looking at MJ very intently, which made the latter's skin crawl, not because it was a threatening or disgusting look, but because she wasn't used to be stared at like that. "Mary Jane, I need you to close your eyes and tell me everything about your nightmare you told me about."

MJ shrugged. "It actually wasn't a nightmare. I just saw my mother. She was crying and calling me."

"And do you feel there's a reason why you saw what you saw?"

MJ nodded her head. She tried to keep her eyes open and focused them on the window to keep the picture out. Old thoughts returned to haunt her mind. _I don't know how or why my parents ever got married. _"Before she died, she wanted to see me. I never went."

It sucked to have her parents for who they were. And therefore, there was a time when she hated herself too.

"I didn't because I didn't want to believe our mom was dying," she said. "My sister and I. It was impossible for me to think we would be living only with our father. It had been our worst nightmare."

She looked at Mrs. Forester, who was looking at her with the same intensity. "My father was a drunk. Even before our mother passed away, he had these affairs with other women he met-anywhere he met them. Then one day after mom…died, I was nine, and he made me iron his girlfriend's clothes. My sister caught me that night doing so, and she snatched the cloths from me and burned them at the backyard. My father, who wasn't in his senses, was violent with her. She left that very night. With all his money.

"The father became a monster from then on. I was pretty mad with my sister. I began to hate her, and I began to loathe myself, for I couldn't run away like she did. She was seventeen, and I was just ten. I waited six years for my aunt to come and take me away. And then the blip happened, and although Thanos killed trillions, I was thankful because father hadn't blipped away, because when I came back, he was settled with a new family. Sure, he's sober and all, but he isn't my father.

"And so here I am, changed too. I learned to be indifferent to people who don't care. Mom used to say, _smile, sweetie, just smile! _And here I am, the most carefree girl you could spot in a thousand miles, and I hate people who keep to themselves, or people who prefer a dark world, and although their…however it is-filled with a shitload of people or if it's a paradise, I hate it when people consider their only source of happiness is some other person. I-I-I loathe such people. Because it reminds me of myself. I was once the same too. You are never alone. People think that I make friends everywhere I go, but I bet you, no one knows anything about me."

* * *

MJ suddenly feels like her head weighs a ton. She crawls to the chair beside Michelle's mother, and sits down. It feels like it's been a long day, and her mind automatically tries to do what the human mind does best-search up a satisfying reason. She knows she hasn't done a single thing to make her feel this tired, and she is about to ask for a glass of water because that's what her mind tells her-she's dehydrated-when she notices May and Michelle both holding their heads.

"Gosh," May mutters.

"Where's Peter?" Michelle asks and Mary Jane sits back on her chair.

That morning, Mary Jane was about to run down the stairs to grab herself a coffee across the street when she noticed Peter running up the stairs to-she knew-the terrace. And if she wasn't wrong, he was trying to take off his jacket on the way.

So it wasn't a question. MJ was there on the terrace too within forty-five seconds, and Peter was already Spider-Man, crouched on the edge of the terrace. He was looking at her, and she could tell he looked pretty destroyed.

"Haven't heard a single siren," she said, "or is it a special call from the Avengers?"

"I'm off to find someone," he replied. "I need some answers. Something's going really, really wrong. I need to know what."

Mary Jane could see the look in his eyes. They were afraid and agitated. "What happened?"

Peter shook his head. "Michelle's mom has had an accident. I've told the others, and now I'm telling you now. Please, go visit her with Aunt May. She knows, though. I can't go. I really can't. So please, Mary Jane."

With that he swung away. MJ was left there gaping at him. She'd just seen someone who she never knew. Peter was transformed into some other person, and it scared her.

* * *

"Where did you tell he was going again?" Michelle asks.

Mary Jane closes her eyes and tries to remember. Peter, putting on his mask and talking to her. Where was he going? Where was he going? Ah hah-

"Bleecker Street, I think," she says, but she doesn't even get to complete.

Michelle is already out the door.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks everyone for the follows, favorites and reviews. Hope you enjoyed it. _


	7. Nightmare

It should feel like standing still on any other part of the country, but actually it is quite breathtaking. Not that it has anything eye-catching, but Peter Parker knows history. Years ago, the neighborhood was almost wiped clean by Thanos's donut-shaped ship, and his troops. Iron Man stood here somewhere, next to Dr. Strange, Wong and Bruce Banner. Peter's also heard that Thor and his brother Loki was spotted here once. And next to him, right on the other side of the door was where the Hulk had crashed after arriving from space. (Pretty cool huh? No, it actually isn't.)

Peter waits after knocking on the door. If there is any doorbell, it doesn't catch his sight for he has something else in his mind. Yet, the thought that Tony Stark once made his visit here reminds him of his huge loss and the hole that's left behind. He is thankful, for the door opens, inwardly praising the quick response, bringing him out of old and longing memories.

The door is actually answered by a bald man, thickset, and in robes. Peter recognizes him at once.

"You must be Wong," he says excitedly.

The man scorns at him. "I am who I am supposed to be."

"Hi, I'm Peter by the way," Peter says, extending his hand. "Peter Parker."

"You're Spider-Man," Wong says, letting the door open a bit wider. Peter, realizing he has his mask on, walks in.

It already feels like he's in some kind of a mystical place. This relic, that relic, it all stands before him. It's exactly how he thought it would be. And before him are the stairs. He doesn't know why he searches for a hole in them, because it's been years since Bruce Banner crash-landed on them.

"How may I help you Spider-Man?" Wong asks, standing in the corner.

"Uh, actually, I'm here to see Dr. Strange. There's something I wanted to say that maybe he can understand and help me with."

Wong shakes his head, and it almost startles Peter. "I'm sorry Mr. Parker, but Strange cannot see you right now."

"But why?" Peter asks, walking over to him. Wong looks down at the floor. "I really need his help. When could I make an appointment?"

"I'm afraid I don't know." Wong walks away and touches a cauldron. Before Peter can say anything he speaks: "Something is wrong with Strange. He's been sleeping for quite a few days now, and he hasn't woken up. Not even if you kick him, which I did try. Not even when you play pop or waltz does he open his eyes."

"What?" Peter almost thinks it's a joke, that maybe somehow Wong read his mind and refuses to help him because he is here with girlfriend issues, but it's the look in his face that tells Peter he is quite serious.

"Come I'll show you," Wong says, and shows Peter around to the former doctor's room. The curtains are drawn, darkening the room. On a bed somewhere towards the centre, Stephen Strange sleeps, breathing peacefully.

"Dr. Strange?" Peter calls out to him, but the man doesn't open his eyes. He turns back to Wong, who is watching from doorway. "What's wrong with him?"

Wong shrugs. "I don't know, but whatever it is, I hope it's not what I think it is."

"Then what _do _you think it is?"

Wong's about to reply, when something overcomes him and he changes the subject. "Tell me anyway," he says, "what you came here for."

"Right." Peter nods his head. "My girlfriend's mother has had an accident." He looks at Wong and waits for a reaction, maybe to chase him off, perhaps. There isn't any. "And then this other day, she is almost run over by a truck. What really bothers me is that one evening at a park I was talking to a man who claimed he was a postmaster, and he had this letter addressed to me, which told me to stay away from Michelle. I dismissed it, but I saw him once or twice in my dreams again. And when two days ago I went back to the park to talk to him, I was told that there was no such man who stayed there. Even the shed he came out from, I heard, never existed. And what's really weird is that what he warmed about, it's really happening, and strangely, after he read out the _prophecy_, I took the paper from him and it was nothing but empty. Blank. Absolutely blank! And right then the man had begun to laugh.

"So tell me Mr. Wong. Am I being ridiculous?"

A grave shadow passes over Wong's face. He must be thinking hard. "You said you saw him in your dreams again?"

Peter nods. "Yeah."

"What did he say?"

"The same things, like he was calling out a spell. He kept on chuckling and laughing."

Wong turns to fully face Peter. "Think hard," he says, "Do you remember what he looked like?"

Peter sighs. "He looked quite lot of creepy, actually. He was on a horse, like those ghost horses we see in TV. And he was dressed in green, tattered cloths. He also had a green cloak behind him."

Maybe it is a little too much for Wong to absorb. He draws in a deep breath. "Then what I feared is true," he says. "I've been seeing him too, lately. In my dreams."

"What does it mean?" Peter asks, but Wong's already about to say.

"I think it's Nightmare," Wong says slowly. "An entity from the dream dimension that feeds on our fears and sleep. And dreams and despair."

It is right then that Peter hears a loud explosion outside.

Before he is stopped, he dashes out.

* * *

Michelle doesn't know what's taken over Peter lately, but if there's one thing she definitely _does _know, it is that she will find out today. She has had enough, and she isn't going to let anyone hurt her again.

She somehow makes it to Bleecker Street when she has a new tap of a headache. Her eyes are drooping and she feels dragged down.

Suddenly a car races past her and hits a building, making a huge and nasty sound. It doesn't strike Michelle to be careful, for she doesn't notice a car racing towards her, at first.

But there's something that strikes her peculiar. The driver is not properly in his seat. His head is resting on the wheel, and turns it, steering the car onto a whole new direction. The wind strikes her face as the car hits a lamppost.

It's actually happening everywhere. All around Michelle there is confusion and mess. People are lying on the street, having suddenly collapsed.

Something red catches her eyes around fifty yards from where she is. She would have known even if she didn't look. It's Peter-Spider-Man-and he's racing towards her. Michelle, in all the confusion, takes a few steps towards him, and all the world has disappeared and it's only him and her.

And then he screams. "Look out!"

* * *

_A/N: There's something important I wanted to tell you all. My younger sibling, who doesn't have an account yet, has written a story about Spider-Ham titled "The Perfect Meal". It's a really short one-shot, and we both would be very grateful if you could kindly try it and let us know what you think. I edited it, but the story wasn't plotted by me. It was planned by StormCity II (my sibling's name for now). You can find it in my profile._

_Thanks everyone for your support in this story. My thanks to all those who have favorited and followed the story. Please leave behind your feedback if you liked it._

_To Gmac, _

_Thank you, and do bear with me if the last chapter felt a little dry. Hopefully this chapter improved upon it._

_And also, please don't mind as this and the previous chapters were comparatively shorter. I might take a little more time before coming up with the next chapter, because it's going to be a bit longer. We are nearing the end of the story. This fic was meant to be ten or eleven chapter long only. Anyways, I'm thinking of a sequel if I get the time._


	8. Behind That Frown

The world feels tilted. Mary Jane Watson does not know how to explain it, but as she sits before the unconscious woman that happens to be Peter's girlfriend's mom, she has one look at Aunt May beside her and confirms that she is going through the same.

"What's wrong with Peter?" she asks for a change of subject because morbid thoughts are all that feel her head at the moment. She knows something is happening for sure, not only to her, and fate and luck have mercy it's not some nightmare like the _blip_ again. She's already had too much on her plate lately. A sudden change of pace is all she does _not _want for a while.

"I don't know," May says sadly. "He's been very upset for the day, but I don't get it why he didn't show up. And now the poor girl has to go after him. I should have stopped her, and I don't know why I didn't. She looks pretty shaken, provided the only family she knows is, you know, there's no guarantee what might happen."

Mary Jane sighs. "I tried contacting Peter, but he's not picking up my calls."

"Nor mine," May says, fishing out her phone again. She tries his number and waits for about a minute. It goes unanswered. "Let's just hope everything is alright."

"May," MJ calls, "is it only me, or you too? The world feels very hazy, and my entire body aches."

"I know," May says, trying to get up. "Maybe it's something to do with the weath-" She doesn't finish when she suddenly collapses on the floor. MJ cries out. She tries to move, but it's like she is weighed down by a rock. She tries to empty her lungs out, but not a single sound erupts.

It's right then that the door opens. At first she is relieved, thinking it's the doctor, but the person standing on the door is a woman with no apron. MJ squints for it's too bright outside to make out who it is.

She doesn't have to wait, though, for the woman slowly strides in. Every moment feels slow, frozen in the cold, because MJ's heart stops beating as she looks in horror at her mother walking towards her. And she knows what that face says. It's sympathetic, but it's there: _You never came._

* * *

In the background there is the sound of her father, crying and moaning and following his voice is that of a woman's. Her mom and her sister are sitting in the kitchen. Mother sits on the chair, her legs brought up and her arms hugging herself. Sis has a hand on Mom's shoulder, and mom is weeping. She is holding a skirt.

And all Mary Jane can do is just watch.

Her younger self walks into the kitchen, holding out a purse to her mother.

"Did you get a new bag?" she asks, when her elder sister snatches it from her and throws it across the table, leaving the little girl perplexed and shocked.

"I'm sorry sweetie," Mom says, pulling her to a hug. "Gayle didn't mean to do that. Did you Gayle?"

Her elder sister shakes her head. "I really meant it, but not on her."

"But it was such a nice bag," the young MJ protests. "Why did you throw it away?"

Gayle stands up and picks up her little sister and sits down again. "I did because it's not mom's. It's hers." She points a finger at the ceiling.

Her mother ruffles MJ's hair sadly. "Gayle get you and your sister out of here."

* * *

The cars rushes towards her at an impossible speed. _Maybe it's the season to get road-killed,_ Michelle thinks, fixed on the spot. The entire world is a chaos, like it has suddenly decided to go crazy and self-destruct. Before her, Peter is still in the air, and it is like the playback speed in the world has been slowed down exponentially. Peter has his mask taken off, and Michelle guesses it's because he somehow knew she'd come after him. And it feels better that he's there for her, and if that damn car makes contact with her and breaks her, at least she'll go with the knowledge that she was not alone.

Someone js there for her.

Peter is.

She must have died, because she can still feel herself. There's no pain. Maybe it's the next phase after death, where people saw strange things. Or maybe she's not dead. She can't recall what actually happened, for suddenly she is in a dark space. She hears voices, and as they grow louder, her surrounding lightens up and she finds she is back in her room. She knows what the voices are now. They're her friends'. They all quieten up as she walks towards them from the door.

"Why have you stopped talking?" she asks them, but no one replies. "It's alright," she says, "I was anyway thinking of calling you guys. I needed to talk to you."

"About what?" a voice suddenly asks, and when her friends give way, she sees that it's Mary Jane sitting on the edge of her bed.

"About…" Michelle wonders what she wanted to tell. There's something that's nagging her, something that's been quite upsetting, but she just can't recall.

"You think they're here for you?" Mary Jane asks. She smirks and chuckles, and the rest of the people start sniggering too. She stands up and walks around her in circles. "Michelle Jones," she says. "The girl who thinks she's hard metal. But you're only a coconut, aren't you? Tough from the outside, but just, from the outside. Inside, there's all cushions bouncing off thoughts about your mother." She smiled. "And oh, yeah. Peter."

Some memories brush her thoughts, and a voice suddenly sings in her head. It's that wretched old prediction. It's the voice of that woman from that night. _Fair share. Fair share._

Mary Jane interrupts though. "You're not as special as you think you are that Peter will ever come to see you. No sir."

She walks to the door, opens it and stands aside. Michelle watches in disbelief as her "friends" walk out without even glancing at her. Though, her pride catches the better of her and she watches expressionlessly. She hopes she looks indifferent as the red-head watches her intently.

"What?" she asks, "Aren't you _moved _by how they walked out?"

Michelle shrugs. "I'm pretty used to it." She turns her back to her and looks at the window. Any sign of a red and black dressed guy swinging in the air would be much welcome now.

"Do you know why Peter Parker is a void?" the red-head asked from behind.

"I know," Michelle says, "but do y-"

Her words freeze in her mouth. It's so icy cold suddenly that she can't even feel her emotions. It's not the red-head standing before her at the doorway, which is now shut. It's a man. A tall man, easily seven feet high. He's thin and towering over her. Dressed in green-tattered clothes and a cloak, he has pale skin, almost painted grey. Dry lips crooked an evil smile at her, and what was more disturbing are his eyes. Those eyes are empty, yet they say everything. They suck in every rational thought, and they devour her. Everything- all the trouble that she had felt these recent days, every nagging reminders and bad dreams all flood into the room. Into her.

* * *

"Where were you?" Michelle asks, holding his hand. They are cold as dead, and she too looks a bit pale. "We were waiting so long."

"Why didn't you come for us?" Mary Jane asks. Her hair does not look as red as it used to. Instead it's all brown and muddy now. There's something in her face. Soot?

"Mary," Peter says, "Michelle, where are we?"

"Can't you see?" Mary Jane says, stepping aside and gesturing with her hand.

They are in a filed. It' so long that Peter doesn't see the end. Nor the beginning. There are tombstones stretching before him. And on each stone is engraved a name.

The one nearest to him shines in the pale moonlight. Peter can't believe what it says.

He casts a glance at Michelle. "I…I don't understand. What-"

"I told you I was waiting so long for you," she says, and her eyes reflect a mixture of anger and sadness. "You never came."

"I…" Peter struggles to find the word. "I was there. I was always there." _Or not_. "Wasn't I?"

Mary Jane stands on his face. "Where were you, then, when the sleep killed her? When the sleep killed me? When it killed everyone else?"

Peter squints. "_Sleep_? What sleep, MJ?"

Michelle curses. "Is she MJ, or am I MJ? Weren't you told to stay away from me? Don't you remember?"

"I did."

"And then it killed her," Mary Jane said. "Why Peter? Why have you been so lousy lately?"

"I tried my best," Peter says, trying to reach for Michelle. Every second she seems to be fading. His hand go through hers."

Michelle retreats. "If you really had tried your best, you wouldn't have let that happen."

Peter turns around to see what she's pointing at. It sends a chill down his entire body.

It's the grave of Mr. Stark. There's a tall man digging it. He's wearing a suit, checkered with different shades of green. His skin is almost grey, and the wind blows lightly around him. Behind him there is a horse breathing out flames, and on the horse is the weird postman from the park.

The tall man with the spade stops digging and looks at Peter. He smiles.

"_Hello Peter, do you want to help me?_" the man asks, and although he is quite far away so that he looks only as big as Peter's fingers, he can hear him quite well. It's like the voice was in his head, for it was scary clear. "_Come on,_" the man says again, and this time Peter notices that his lips aren't even moving. He's just grinning from ear to ear while his horse breaths out fire behind him and the old man on top of it waves a letter at Peter. "_We can meet and introduce ourselves._" Peter backs away. Mary Jane and Michelle are gone. The man in green suddenly frowns. "_Don't you want to talk?_"

But Peter already knows who he is.

* * *

_A/N: Hopefully you liked this chapter. I've shifted to multiple views now and it will carry on for some time as we are approaching the end. Another two chapters and this is done. Hope you like it till now. Please give me some feedback. _

_To Gmac, thanks for your reviews. You'll get your answers soon! _


	9. Surprises

Two green lights linger in her mind when Michelle wakes up with a jolt. First thing she knows, the sun's burning her face. She covers it with her hand.

Then she realizes the second thing.

She's not in bed.

The surface beneath her feels hard and rough. She moans as her back and waist hurt and turns to her side. The world doesn't clear at once, but as she squints she has to think before deciding to believe her buildings jut out like nails from a black surface that looks like concrete or gravel. A cold breeze greets her and she gasps.

All houses and buildings before her hang flat from a vertical wall, but that's okay. That's normal. She's on her side, lying on the road and seeing the world tilted. She takes a deep breath and does it again and again and again for she fears she might not be able to again later. Because there are houses and departmental stores and New York City's so famous sky scrapers, which when should also seem tilted or flat seem to be standing upright. Or upside down.

She pushes herself off and realizes she's standing amidst an ocean of bricks and glass and a broken city.

The only thing she remembers is the hospital. Something had happened. She was upset and devastated. And there was that sound of loud fire crackers that still blocks her hearing.

Ears ringing, she carefully steps away from the demolished spot she found herself in.

* * *

The remains of Bleecker Street stand eerily calm and normal, like all the rubles and explosion was a daily exercise. With a dry throat, Michelle approaches a mother and her little boy right outside their door, playing with paper boats on the puddles. No sooner does she step towards them that the mother grabs her child and rushes into the house as if pursued by ghosts. The door slams shut on her face.

Feeling rather stupid, Michelle continues onward. Feeling a blur behind her, she wonders what brought her here in the first place. And how.

People before her, sparsely spread across the street, notice her. An old man in a vest snarls at her while a middle-aged woman looks at her in disgust. Michelle thinks she hears the repulsion in them.

"Excuse me," she calls at the woman, but before she can finish the latter turns her back and hurries away.

"Stay away from us girl," the old man grunts and limps across the street and disappears inside his house.

Only when the crowd dissolves does she notice the boy in an out-of-place red and black suit staring at her. His face is not of malice, though. It's bloody and sooty. The stranger thing is, she feels she's seen him before. She slowly walks towards him, careful at every step not to seem threatening like the others might have felt. The boy doesn't move. He stares at her impassively, his eyes never leaving hers.

Where had she seen him?

"Peter?" the words escape her throat before she even knows it. Peter? She closes here eyes and leans against the huge black wall obstructing her memories. Peter? She tries pushing it so that she can see the light.

She inches towards the motionless boy, every step making his face clearer.

"Michelle are you okay?" he asks in a calm voice which she remembers isn't his style. Peter would have been more anxious and energetic.

And suddenly it all comes sinking back. Like she said _open sesame_ and the walls of the cave just disappeared and bright light slipped in. There was an explosion and a truck had been hurling at her. Did it hit her? Apparently not. But she looks at Peter now, his face bloody, the arms of his sleeves torn and burnt skin beneath. Did it hit him?

Yet he still stands there before her.

She rushes to him and hugs him and he places his hands on her back. He shivers and stiffens. He's in pain.

"Peter what happened?" she manages to say amidst the shock. "Are you alright? I know you're bleeding, but are you okay?"

He pulls back and tells her he's fine. Just little bumps here and there are usual side-effects of his job. Yet his voice is strained.

"What just happened?" Michelle asks again.

"Things have been wrong lately Michelle," Peter says carefully, looking down at his feet. "Weird things have been happening to me."

"Me too." She holds his hand, afraid he might resist. But he simply lets her.

"You too? What kind of thing happened?"

She takes a deep breath. "I met this woman one evening when I was gong home from the library. Strange woman. I helped her pick up her books when she held my hand and said a lot of things to me. Like, she said some Mary Jane might come soon and steal something very important from me. I didn't believe her but I did feel very cold. I decided to tell you, but thought I was being silly. And who knows! A week or two later she's already in class sitting with you and me."

"Mary Jane…" Peter says thoughtfully. "Steal something from you. I guess she was referring to-"

"You. Yes. I believed her. I had to. I think she knew my name. And-" she looks away, avoiding his gaze. Maybe it's time she said it. "And I think it _was_ working. She _was_ stealing you from me. All this time I waited and waited and waited, but you'd never come home to me. It's like you forgot me."

Peter's face falls. "I'm sorry things turned that way Michelle. I really am. But it's not true. Nobody was taking me from you. Not ever! I'm sorry I wasn't there always. I've been a lousy boyfriend haven't I?"

Relieved, and a thousand pounds lifted off her head, Michelle sighs. "You were only trying to help the new girl. It was I who over thought things-"

She stops.

She hadn't even realized they returned to the same place she woke up in.

"Michelle there's something I need to tell you," Peter says, and that weary look is back on his face. "Don't panic."

Breath stuck in her throat, she nods, bracing herself. "Go on."

"You see those piles of rubble? Good, it's just bricks and wood. I need you to remove them, and see what's underneath. I can't-" Peter shows her his hurt hands.

"What is it there?" she asks, heart already thumping.

"Just go on."

Michelle hesitates.

"Please?"

"Okay."

"Yeah, alright. I'll tell you as you keep digging. I mean, removing."

Michelle inches towards the pile of chest-height rubble and trips on the way.

"Be careful," Peter warns. She nods.

At the top are broken pieces of glass. She finds the back of an old plastic chair and sweeps them away. Then she removes the heavy iron window frame slowly and clutches away the first broken brick.

"You must be wondering why Bleecker Street," Peter says, carefully sitting on rubble to her right. "You know who lives here?"

"You told me once. Wait," she says, now frantically removing bricks and pieces of jagged wood. "Was it Dr. Strange?" Whatever it is, she needs to find fast before her heart gives out.

"Yes. He explained to me something which I'm about to tell you. Michelle, do you ever believe in ghosts?"

Michelle pulls at a curtain revealing a broken door. "Never found them convincing, but I guess nowadays you might have to believe in anything."

"Yes. Well, as they show in movies, that when a person dies, his soul leaves the body. Well, that's not entirely true. Nor is that untrue. Actually, there's this thing they call your physical form and your astral form."

Michelle finds the first sign of a human shape amongst the mess, totally unrecognizable.

Peter continues. "Sorcerers, like Strange himself can leave the physical form at will. And when people die, it's their astral form that leaves the physical form. Physical form as in you right now. Astral form is actually what we see in movies, haunting a place. Like spirits. It's like what happened to someone called the Ancient One. She fell off from the sky, and while Dr. Strange took her to the table to operate, it was already hopeless. She'd left her body. I mean, her _astral form_ left her body. You see that now?"

Michelle nods. With a thundering heart, she notices a bloody hand jutting out from a hole in the middle of a wooden table. "Who is it?" she asks with an effort to remove the table. Boy, you had to give it to the girl. She wipes sweat from her forehead. She'd faint if it wasn't for Peter there.

"You should look," came Peter's strained voice.

Michelle keeps on working. It's clear whoever it is is dead.

Muscles quivering, with cold hands she digs at the rubble, anxious to end this little charade once and for all. She digs through bricks like she's digging through garbage until she removes the final brick.

She stares , her whole body numb.

The dead body lies upside down. With trembling hands, she forces herself to turn the body over to its back. Doing so stains her fingers and palms with dark blood and she cries in shock and disgust.

With a sense of dread, she understands now.

Lying down before her is Peter Parker staring into oblivion.

* * *

Mary Jane opens her eyes to find Peter's aunt May looming in on her.

The room is dimly lit by the bed-side table lamp. She feels nothing different. It must have been some time when she fell asleep. The stranger thing was she couldn't remember what had happened.

"Aunt May," she says, sitting upright on the couch. "How long was I out?"

"A little more than three hours," she says, standing upright. "Come on MJ. Got a call from your aunt." The peace wears out of her face. "Apparently your sister's here to see you. But hadn't you told me she ran away?"

* * *

**A/N: I apologize for the huge delay in updating. This is the final product after the original chapter was halved, because it wasn't wholly completed. I just had to get back into this story well. Although originally a total of ten chapters were planned, I might have to make it eleven. I'll let you know in the next chapter.**


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